


crush it till the petals fall

by superlawyer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Coercion, Drinking, FFH canon, FFH spoilers(?), I am a bad person, M/M, Manipulation, Mostly Canon Compliant, Peter is 18 (at least that’s what I thought when writing dear God I’m sorry.), Porn Without Plot, Subtextual daddy issues™️, The Snap references, disorientation, dubcon, dubiously underage, hot off the presses, implied drugging, limited perspective, ok there’s a plot it’s just not all that apparent here yet, peter’s pov, please heed warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 22:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlawyer/pseuds/superlawyer
Summary: In the wake of the Snap-turned-Blip, Peter Parker just wants to take a break from grief and superheroics and enjoy life for a change.Enter: Mysterio, a new hero from another world who seems to be every bit the support and relief he so desperately needs. Emphasis on “seems.”





	crush it till the petals fall

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to resist it. I really did. But FFH got to me. Sorry.

* * *

The deflated, blustery chill of the day after New Year’s Day in Queens, an eerie, unusual quiet insulated by the distance from Times Square’s televised glitz and roving packs of tourists. A powdery dusting of snow piling up into a foot, then dissolving, with the help of emptied stale beers and emptied stomachs, into slush. He might as well’ve been that slush. It might as well’ve been the end of the holidays as far as he knew.

Beyond being in space and meeting aliens and attempting to overcome a giant, rabid, purple one, winter was all Peter could think about. He was cold, not the shivering kind of cold, but cold from the inside out. He flitted in and out of consciousness. His mind’s eye flashed: lights, Thai takeout, adding a Hershey’s square to a mug of Swiss Miss. While his perpetually hungry stomach would normally have gurgled at the mere thought of his aunt’s (in)famously toothache-inducing, Christmas-exclusive hot chocolate, there was nothing there now. No sensation but cold, a void forming. 

This winter pushed away Tony, who grasped at him, then held him, tighter than anyone had since his uncle’s wake. It pushed away May and the guilt and doubt that’d bubbled in the pit of his stomach the moment he left the Earth’s atmosphere. It pushed away Ned, game nights, and the tickets he’d already preordered for the new Star Wars installment. It even pushed away MJ, whose wisecracks would’ve been almost angelic to hear if “angelic” weren’t too on-the-nose for someone who was... dying?

A void wasn’t forming within him. He was becoming a void.

Before winter seeped further and further up his spine, radiating out to his every nerve ending, numbing and alarming him all at once, words had stumbled out of him just as he stumbled forward, just as Tony caught him. 

“I-I don’t want to go...” Peter stammered. “Please, Mr. Stark, I don’t want to g-go.” 

When he fell back, Tony falling down with him, in that one second, winter had taken him. Gone was the tingling, burning sensation like his entire body had been submerged in liquid nitrogen. Emptiness was all that was left.

One last look at Tony. Tony, who was the sole anchor there keeping him tethered to home, to Earth, to whatever his existence meant. 

“I’m sorry.” 

In another second, a holiday highlight reel raced by: May singing along to the Charlie Brown special on their first Christmas alone together. Trying to examine snowflakes using a junior microscope, one of his favorite childhood presents. Learning about mistletoe and dreaming of his first kiss. A ceramic ornament, made by his mother for his first-ever Christmas, falling off a top branch, then shattering into too many tiny pieces to glue back together. 

* * *

Burning warmth.

“Hey, kid, you all right?” 

Peter coughed once, then twice, staccato. He swallowed thickly. He grimaced as he slid the glass back to Quentin. 

“I’m great,” Peter replied. “Okay, no, I’m not. How do you drink this? How do people do this to themselves?”

Quentin scrunched up his face, then laughed. 

“Wait a minute... you fought Thanos, twice, _willingly_ , and you’re asking me how people drink scotch?” 

The younger man giggled, a slight flush blooming across his face.

“I don’t know if you’ve already noticed this or not, but,” Peter paused to sip his lemonade. “My life makes no sense.” 

“I mean, yeah, you almost make mine seem perfectly normal. Boring, even,” Quentin quipped. He rested an elbow on the bar top and cradled his head in his hand, his wedding band catching dim light. 

“If you ask me, though, it’s not...” Quentin’s eyes scanned Peter’s face. “It’s not okay you haven’t gotten to be like, a regular person for this long. These are the best years of your life—isn’t that what they say?” 

Peter frowned. He looked away from Quentin, locking eyes with the sticky floor instead. His face felt hotter. He adjusted the mock turtleneck of his stealth suit, rolling it down. It was slightly damp to the touch. He loudly sipped his lemonade down to the ice. 

Quentin sat back up, almost like a startled cat, and waved the bartender over. 

“You want another one?” Quentin asked, smirking less with his mouth, more with his always-expressive eyes. 

Peter stirred out of his staring contest with the floor. 

“Uh,” He searched the rainbow-colored rows of bottles behind the bartender. “No, you pick for me.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” He said. “Sooo much trouble. Making me feel bad about myself here, kid.” 

Peter tilted his head, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m not—I’m not trying to make you feel bad!” He protested. “You were making me feel bad!”

Quentin laughed incredulously. Peter mock-scowled up at him. 

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you feel like,” The older man stifled in another laugh. “A nerd or something? You definitely don’t have to prove how ‘cool’ you are to me by giving into peer pressure. As awkward as you might be, I already think you’re plenty cool.” 

Peter blushed. He looked back toward the bottles.

“You sound like a Captain America health class tape right now,” He replied. “You were right, okay? Maybe I do need to start enjoying myself a little more.” 

He stared down an angular crimson and gold bottle. 

“Life is too short not to.” 

* * *

The searing heat of a hot stove. 

“Never... have I... ever... been kissed.”

“Bullshit!” Quentin replied, readying another tiny bottle from the hotel minibar before returning to sit at the foot of the bed. “You’re lying. No way.”

Peter blushed. 

“Not, not really,” The words slurred themselves out. “Not a real... real kiss. No yet.” He chewed his cheek and fidgeted with the hem of his top. 

Quentin knocked back the bottle of vodka in one shot. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. 

“Why not?” 

“I’d just,” Peter stared down at the ornate rug, still fidgeting. “Mess, it... up.”

Quentin leaned over. He clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. With his other hand, he tilted Peter’s chin up, bringing his line-of-sight to eye-level. 

“Don’t always be so hard on yourself.” 

Peter’s skin almost burned at the touch. Quentin’s strong features looked both softer-focus and yet more jarring. Somehow, he looked like someone Peter had never, ever seen before and couldn’t have ever imagined, truly an outsider from another world. But at another angle, familiar, comforting, almost, almost like—

Peter kissed him, lips parted. A muffled sound of surprise melted into tongue rolling firmly against and into tongue, urgent, sloppy. Quentin snaked his hand from Peter’s shoulder to the back of his neck, closing over it tightly. 

Peter pulled away, panting, entire chest heaving, lips red and glossy. 

“‘M sor—” Quentin pulled him onto his lap and into another kiss. 

This time, Quentin broke the kiss first. He looked up at Peter. 

“No need to apologize.” 

Peter bit his lip. The edges of his vision were blurry and starry, floaters drifting in and out of view. The cool metal of Quentin’s armor against his hands and the heat he felt everywhere else furthered his dizziness. He shifted in Quentin’s lap, attempting to steady himself, instead brushing against what felt like armor, but wasn’t. 

Peter’s eyes widened. The overwhelming warmth in his chest rendered his normally alert senses fuzzy, as slurred as his speech. But he felt that like a jolt. 

Quentin locked eyes with him, his bright blue irises navy, almost black, in the low light. 

“You won’t remember this, and that’s my fault,” He murmured softly. “But I’m going to enjoy fucking you and I only hope you manage to enjoy it, too.” 

Peter blinked rapidly. 

“What—”

Quentin cut him off with a kiss again, sweet sugar to ease down bitter, bitter medicine. His hands worked at Peter’s suit effortlessly, unlatching and releasing the belt and pulling up his shirt to his chest.

“Take this off for me,” Quentin said, more like an order than a request. Something about how he said it made Peter do it, immediately, frantically, almost tearing the material as he peeled it off. He found Quentin’s voice captivating from the moment he said “multiverse,” but this was different. It felt like going into battle alongside him.

Quentin smiled. 

“Good boy. Wouldn’t want to get that messy, would we?” He cooed into Peter’s ear. Peter shivered. 

“Quentin,” Peter’s voice trembled. The rest of his sentence dissipated into breathy little moans as Quentin ran a hand back and forth over the bulge he was painfully aware—yet totally clueless—had formed. Words popped into his head and left as quickly as they arrived. He felt weightless and heavy, as alive as he’s ever felt and almost comatose. He felt stupid and intoxicated and so thoroughly _young_ , the way he’d assumed the characters on the “steamy” teen dramas he’d only read Wikipedia summaries about must’ve felt. 

“What is it, honey?” Quentin whispered. His hand still moving, he sucked at Peter’s neck enough to make him practically mewl, but not enough to leave a mark. 

“F–fuck me,” The plea tumbled out of Peter’s swollen lips before his brain could catch it. 

He could feel Quentin smirk against his skin. 

“Yeah? You want that?”

“Please.” 

Quentin wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist and stood up. Reflexively, Peter locked his arms around Quentin’s neck, clinging for stability as his vision grew starrier and starrier. Before he knew it, Quentin threw him down on the bed, then dragged him down to the foot. 

“Roll over.” Peter mustered all of his quickly-fading strength and energy to obey, legs loosely tangling over each other, his face down, prone. Through his heavy-lidded eyes, the sheets seemed to have dancing, undulating patterns. 

A burning, incomprehensible sensation shocked Peter out of his glassy daze. Quentin had worked a slick finger inside of him. He tried to lift his head up to look behind him, but his head felt weighed down, or his neck was too weakened—he couldn’t tell. His tongue was lead weight in his mouth, so his cries were that much more garbled, already muffled by the bedspread.

Wordlessly, Quentin pushed another finger inside, prying Peter open. Peter tensed, seizing up around his scissoring.

“Hey, hey,” Quentin said. “Pace yourself. It’s only going to hurt worse, real soon.” 

With his spare hand, Quentin tugged at Peter’s hair. He managed to lift his head up a little. 

“What...?” He mumbled. His head dropped back down, the side of his face now against the sheets. 

“Want to hear you.” 

Quentin pushed the remainder of Peter’s suit farther down his legs, pants bunched around his calves. Peter shuddered. In his periphery, he could make out glimpses of what Quentin was doing. He heard a dull zipping sound; the click of a bottle opening; skin against skin. Pressure. Quentin was back against him, lifting and tilting Peter’s hips up. 

Pressure again, but not the ambient pressure of being vaguely aware of weight and body. No—the sharp, sawing, aching pressure of being torn into, of weight and body being forced inside of your own body. Peter groaned from the back of his throat out to the too-still air, his pain seemingly echoing off every object, taunting him. 

In his periphery, he searched for Quentin. Damp hair had fallen over Quentin’s face, a face that now looked not like an outsider or an ally, but some third entity. His skin was deeply flushed, sweat dripping down his jaw and neck. He still had almost all of his suit on. 

Peter’s chest felt tight, so did his head, hips—every inch of flesh and organ and sinew had been wound up to bursting. 

With every thrust, Quentin unraveled another part of him, fucking into him with the kind of aggression Peter hadn’t ever seen from him before, even against the Elementals. Peter gasped for air that couldn’t fill his lungs fast enough. 

Joining the cacophony of his gasping and ragged cries were Quentin’s own, much lower moans, escaping from his grit teeth, and the constant, relentless sound of his balls hitting Peter’s ass. 

Quentin grabbed Peter’s limp arms and held them together behind him by his wrists, in one hand, almost enough to bruise. 

“Fuck,” Quentin sighed. “You weren’t lying about being a virgin, huh?” 

Peter shook his head, less to respond, more to refute, or to move, or to do anything but lie there and take it. Each thrust broke him down further and further. Ever since he got his powers, he thought he’d never feel this weak and vulnerable again. This _small_.

Even with Peter’s senses dulled, or slowed, or drunk, or whatever this was, it hurt. Quentin’s cock pumping inside of him was so thick and Peter was so full he felt like he was going to rip apart, somehow. 

He almost felt like he was on Titan again. 

Quentin slowed his pace a little, rocking his hips into Peter instead of slamming. Peter rasped out a moan that almost sounded wounded. Something had changed. White-hot, raw, feverish want—no, need. He ached so much it pushed every other thought in his spinning head out, leaving only “Quentinquentinquentin.” 

Each thrust fucked him more into the mattress, and more into some indeterminate place inside of Peter that was at once panic and pleasure button. Friction from the sheets against his length drove him closer to oblivion. 

“Quentin,” Peter could barely eke the name out. “Pl-please...”

Hand still around Peter’s wrists, Quentin wove his other hand under Peter’s body. He slid him back off the bed enough to expose his cock, to wrap his hand around it, to stroke roughly. Peter’s legs shook. If it weren’t for Quentin, surrounding him and holding him up from the inside out, he would’ve fell down, passed out, something. 

The world closed in around Peter. The lights seemed to go out, leaving them in complete darkness. His eyes were wide open, but he could see nothing but black, then a thousand little bursts of light, fireworks beating out the black. He felt himself shouting, but could hear nothing. He was deprived of his senses, yet they fired on all cylinders. Quentin held him tightly while he came, like he was capsizing, like he was going to drown. 

In the afterglow, Peter’s senses remained blurred. Either the pain had finally vanished or he must’ve died. He felt what could’ve been hot wax spill inside of him, Quentin’s hand on his wrists definitely bruising now. 

Quentin pulled out and away, leaving Peter to tip forward in a slouched heap on the bed. Peter could feel come trickle down his thigh, but nothing else. 

Quentin kissed the back of his neck. 

“Thank you for your help, Peter Parker,” His lips ghosted the words into his skin. He stood up. 

“End recording.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that wasn’t terrible and I’m sorry either way. I’m rusty! And a bad person! 
> 
> In the off chance you’re a Matt Murdock/Peter Parker fan and have at all wondered where I’ve been the four or so years since last posting fic: I’m still alive! 
> 
> Long, long story, but something about FFH and their dynamic managed to, ahem, tangle me back into this twisted, awful, sinister web of peddling (arguably increasingly more deviant) smut online for the sake of fandom and maybe entertaining strangers momentarily. I also could use the writing challenge/practice, which is why I tried to experiment with some different techniques and styles here. 
> 
> Anyway: stay safe out there, don’t go drinking with villains (no matter how pretty they are), and take care of yourselves! 
> 
> P.S. Another part to this might be coming. Quentin’s POV was the easier choice, and expounding on his MCU backstory is very compelling, so... probably, but in the mean time, hope you enjoyed poor Peter and his broken body and brain. We’ll see what happens in part two.


End file.
